


Shame

by orphan_account



Category: Shame (2011), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Office, Bisexual Erik, M/M, Shame AU, Suicide Attempt, background alcoholism, dadneto, suicidal character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 07:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Erik Lehnsherr lives a remarkably privileged life. He's acting-CEO of Stark Industries, he gets to spend every day rubbing that in Charles Xavier's face, and is doing a pretty good job of avoiding any and all responsibilities. So, when his son Peter unexpectedly crashes at his apartment and invades his privacy, Erik is finally forced to confront his problems head-on.Inspired by Shame.





	Shame

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS!  
> as you can see by the tags, this fic does include a suicide attempt by a major character. if you want to skip that scene completely, the first and last part of the scene are in bold. stay safe my loves <3  
> (UPDATE: i read over this again and the ending sort of made me go “what the fuck...” so i changed it very slightly, hope u don’t mind. thanks for 1k hits!)

There was an almost-woman sat on the subway, all legs and cushion-soft lips and proportioned features. Erik wondered who was paying for her expensive clothes and the Louis Vuitton handbag that was hooked over her shoulder. His eyes strayed down to her Louboutins and up her toned legs until they reached the hem of her short skirt. When he reached her face, she was looking back at him, lips pursed. She coughed awkwardly, tucked her raven black hair behind her ear and shifted to pull her skirt down.

The train lurched to a halt, the doors opened, and the girl stood for a pregnant woman to take her seat. She ended up stood not far in front of Erik, a slender hand wrapped around the pole near the door of the train to keep herself steady as the train began to move again.

He stood a few moments later, and stopped just short of the woman. Their positioning was not particularly peculiar on the flooded train, and in their close proximity, he could smell her hair, the waft of her flowery perfume, and could catch a glimpse of a large tattoo peeking through the hem of her shirt. It extended over both shoulders and dipped down between her prominent shoulder blades. 

As soon as the train stopped again, she left without another glance in his direction. He made an attempt to follow her, but decided against it before he could step onto the platform. She was lost in the crowd. Making himself late for lost endeavours was a habit he didn’t feel like adopting.

 

“It’s disgusting," the IT tech was saying, but Erik was far from listening. From this position in his office, he could see all the way over to the other side of the floor. Emma Frost had her back turned, and her white pantsuit perfectly hugged her figure. The tech continued as if Erik hadn’t zoned out completely, “I’ve never seen anything like it. Somebody must have either hacked into the internal drive or done it from right here, at your desk.”

Emma turned around, and Erik flicked his gaze back to the tech guy. McCoy, was it?

“When am I getting it back?” he asked.

The tech shrugged, “As soon as it’s cleared, it shouldn’t take too long. Four days, maybe?”

Four days...

“Right,” Erik sighed, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

 

When Erik got back on the subway, it was almost rush hour and he just managed to grab a seat before the train filled completely. He studied the man opposite him, who he could only just see through the crowd shuffling uncomfortably to squeeze into the train car. The guy was young, maybe early twenties, probably just out of university. His dark hair was pulled up into a bun, and his nails, which raked softly at his neck, were painted black.

In the brief moment that he looked in Erik’s direction, Erik noted black lining his steely grey eyes. He would not have normally gone for a man such as this, but his mind raced with fantasies about what he would look like with his hair out of that tie, eyeliner smudged under his eyes, black paint flaking into deep, angry scratches on Erik’s back...

 

The answer machine was flashing obnoxiously in the hallway. Erik hung up his coat and scarf and kicked his shoes off, placed them neatly on the rack beside the front door. He considered the clear button for a long moment before pressing ‘play’ and heading into the bathroom.

“You have five new messages,” the automated voice said before it clicked through.

“Hey... it’s me. Could you pick up? I’ve been trying to call you for weeks...” Click.

“Come on, can you not pick up just once? We really need your help.” Click.

“Me again, just making sure you’re not dead.” Click.

“Please pick up, I’m worried.” Click.

“I’m calling you because... Fuck! I fucking give up! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Click.

Erik turned on the shower and didn’t think about it.

 

“Lehnsherr,” the security guard practically growled when Erik entered the building. The day guard was a man who had a way of making everything he said sound threatening and vaguely animalistic.

“Howlett.” Erik courteously saluted him with his coffee.

He held the elevator door for a colleague, made a vague attempt at small talk, and spent a brief moment pondering the dip in her collarbone.

 

A telephone rang out into the mostly dark apartment. Erik barely wavered as it rang once, twice, three times, and then clicked off. The man on his laptop screen moaned, and another man’s voice played from the phone.

“I – I’m dying... I have cancer... I have one week to live...”

Erik sighed and pressed the space button to pause the video so violently it stuck.

“It’s the very worst kind of cancer... of the foreskin...” The caller made an irritated sound and the message ended. Erik couldn’t help but snigger.

 

“Disgusting, invasive, insatiable...”

Erik was aware that the man was speaking, but it was very difficult to pay attention when his lips were so cherry-red, and his hair was tucked behind his ear like that. It was just the right length that Erik could have easily laced his fingers through it and tugged, maybe used it to pull his head back, expose the long column of his throat...

“Mr Lehnsherr!” Xavier almost yelled, slapping his hand down heavily on the desk, “Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I am,” Erik replied with ease, a relaxed smile, he leant back in his chair, “Insatiable, you were saying?”

Xavier sighed irritably. The fact that Erik was actually _listening_ to him made him somewhat angrier than he would have been if he wasn’t. “Ms Potts put _you_ in charge, which makes you the only one with the power to fire this man!”

Right, yeah, there was a guy he had to fire, sure. Some creep on floor seven who touched female employees and jerked off in the bathroom.

He waved a hand, “Tell him to clear his desk.”

“Clear his...” Xavier looked about ready to explode. The other COO of Stark Industries had never exactly liked Erik, and he liked him even less now that Pepper had put him in the position of acting CEO. It was a shame, really, Erik had imagined him bent over the desk in his office more than once. “Are you telling me that you’re not going to take action?”

“Firing him is an action, is it not?” Erik supposed, “But, what did _you_ want me to do, Mr Xavier?”

Xavier scrubbed a hand over his face, “I can’t deal with this, not today. Thank you, Mr Lehnsherr.”

“My pleasure,” Erik smiled, and he didn’t miss how Xavier was muttering under his breath as he left.

 

“Fucking hell! Can’t you just fucking answer your phone for once! You’re the most... You’re such a dick. You’re shit. Shithead! You motherfucking shithead!” Click.

 

Late on Wednesday, Azazel walked into his office. There was a devilish smile on his face that Erik caught in the reflection in his framed university diploma.

Erik sighed, shut his courtesy replacement laptop and looked up at him. “In the middle of the week?”

Azazel’s eyebrow quirked, and Erik sighed again. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d been sent by the others because they knew that he was the only one Erik would never straight up deny.

“Give me five minutes.”

 

The moment they passed the threshold to the bar, Erik felt fire in his veins. There was nothing like a night out to get every nerve in his body fired up.

“To success,” CFO Janos Quested – known to a select few as ‘Riptide’ – was leading the toast, “The boss’ absence, and Erik Lehnsherr’s impressive porn collection!”

“Fuck you.” Erik laughed as he raised his glass.

 

“A woman in a suit...” Azazel muttered sometime later.

Erik’s eyes followed where his were straying, and caught a woman leant over the bar. Curly blonde hair cascaded down to the dip in her back, accentuated by a tight pencil skirt and tucked-in blouse. Azazel’s conception of a suit was more than a little screwed, the girl looked more like a cocktail waitress than a businesswoman.

“You should go talk to her,” Erik said. Azazel gave him a strong pat on the back, pumped himself up for a moment, and then slid out of the booth to make a beeline for the girl.

“Twenty bucks says he’ll fuck it up,” Erik whispered to Janos, who slapped the twenty into his hand without a word.

Erik headed over to Azazel, and dropped into the stool beside him. The girl looked up and smiled a polite, perfect smile. “Are you going to introduce us, Az?” he asked.

“Erik!” Azazel exclaimed, clapping Erik’s shoulder. The blonde looked amused, she was pretty and proportionate, all soft angles and high cheekbones and the ghost of a smile. “This is –”

“Raven,” a British accent interjected. Erik, Azazel and the girl all looked towards the source, and Erik smiled when he met the face of one Charles Xavier.

“Xavier,” he said, “did you finally decide to join us?”

Xavier sucked his teeth, “I’m here with my sister.” He handed drink to the girl, “Your cola.”

“Thanks, Charles.” She took a sip from the straw, and Azazel spoke again.

“Xavier, you never told us your sister was such a fox!”

“I’m not an animal, Azazel,” she replied. There was a sense of teasing in her tone that almost sent Erik’s mind spiralling down rabbit hole.

Charles leant on the bar, “Raven, love, shut your eyes for me a moment.” Raven did so willingly, and Charles looked to Azazel. “What colour are they?”

The ever-so-confident man was obviously thrown off, and Erik took a sip of his drink to stop himself from laughing. “Uh –” Azazel thought for a moment, and then said, confidently, “Brown.”

He’d earned that twenty, and it was his for the keep.

Raven laughed, and Charles shook his head, “Not quite.” He looked to Erik, “Your turn.”

Erik laughed and shook his head, “Oh, I don’t think –”

“Oh no, I insist, my friend,” Charles said.

“Blue.”

Erik took a swig of his drink when Raven opened bright blue eyes and applauded him.

“Cheater,” Azazel muttered.

The song changed suddenly, and Azazel made a noise in his throat that Erik would equate to some kind of dying animal.

“I love this song!” he yelled, “Raven, Raven, my dear Raven.” He grabbed the girl’s hands and she laughed, “You hear this song? I wrote this song, I wrote it just for you.” He kissed her hand and up her arm, she looked amused while Charles looked slightly queasy, “You should dance with me to this song that I wrote just for you.”

Raven placed her drink down and went willingly to the dance floor with Azazel. Charles reluctantly sat in the seat beside Erik, who gestured to the bartender for two more drinks. Charles thanked him quietly.

“Not a dancer, then?” Erik asked, glancing over at the dance floor where Azazel was making a fool himself and Raven was watching him almost fondly.

Charles swilled his drink around, “More of a drinker, really.” He confirmed that statement by tipping his head back and taking the whole drink at once.

“I see that,” Erik laughed, “You might want to calm down, there, it’s a school night.”

Charles shrugged and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Wetness glistened from his lips, and Erik averted his eyes quickly. If he wanted a chance at all, he couldn’t fuck it up yet.

“Pepper’s out of the country, I might as well take the opportunity while I can.” Charles replied, a glint in his eye.

Erik tilted his glass upwards, “I can drink to that.”

They pressed their glasses together – the bartender had filled Charles’ again already, somehow – and they both took their drinks in one.

It took Charles a lot longer to get tipsy than it did Erik, and if he hadn’t been slightly out of it, Erik would have wondered more about why that was.

“You’re good at this,” Erik pointed out, a passing comment as they were almost finished with a round of shots.

Charles froze, knocked back his final drink and said, “I think we should end this. I should be going.”

Erik almost stood, but instead just found himself with a hand on Charles’ arm. “I didn’t mean to – you should come home with me.”

He said it before he thought it. Usually, no matter how drunk he was, he could manage to keep some sort of a composure. He wasn’t even that drunk, was he?

“You’ve been drinking.” Charles shook off his hand, “And you should make sure Azazel gets home.” He slung his jacket over one arm and then whistled as if hailing a dog, “Raven, we’re leaving!”

Raven trotted over obediently, holding Azazel’s hand. Charles watched as she grabbed a pen from the bartender, pulled up Azazel’s sleeve and wrote a series of numbers on his arm. She then kissed him on the cheek, grabbed her handbag and followed Charles out.

“Come on, big guy,” Erik muttered to Azazel, hooking his friend’s arm over his shoulders and tugging him up. “Let’s get you home.”

 

It took him a lot longer than he expected to get the love-struck Azazel back to his house. When he got back into the taxi, he couldn’t help but press at the inside of his thigh for the whole journey to his own apartment. The thought of Charles’ glistening lips was on his mind, his pale skin, a blank canvas, bare of even a freckle. His softly spoken accent, how it would sound screaming his name, begging for _more_.

The cab pulled to a halt and Erik paid the driver extra for putting up with Azazel. Feeling mostly sober by now, he took the stairs up to his apartment.

He felt his blood run cold when he heard music floating down the hallway. His neighbours were one rich old person short of a yacht club, not _exactly_ the type to listen to Pink Floyd.

It took him a moment, and a careful approach to his front door to really clarify that that was where the sound was coming from. He debated calling 911 for the briefest moment before deciding to go in himself, as it could have just been nothing. Maybe he’d left the radio on that morning.

He unlocked the door as slowly and quietly as he could and grabbed the baseball bat from the cupboard just inside. There was a sound like the shower running the bathroom. Deciding that’s where he needed to go, he took a few deep, steadying breaths, before charging forward and flinging the door open. He ripped the shower curtain back and screamed, “I’ll fucking kill you!”

There was a scream, and Erik stopped seeing red for long enough to see the boy in the shower grab the towel closest to him to cover himself.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Dad!” he yelled, tied the towel around his waist and then grabbed at his elbow, which he’d sit somewhere while flailing for the towel, “Fuck, ow! Shit!”

Erik stood there, staring at his dripping wet, mostly naked son and shaking slightly from the adrenaline now coursing through him. “What the fuck, Pietro?”

“It’s Peter,” the boy snapped, still nursing his elbow, “Don’t you ever fucking knock?”

“Why would I knock? I live here.” Erik said. He reached around Peter to turn off the shower, “How did you even get in?”

“Ow!” Peter hissed, “You gave me keys, dipshit.”

“Hell...” Erik sighed, “Is your arm alright?”

“It’s fucking fine,” Peter said, and then looked up at Erik through his dripping wet hair, “You have a baseball bat?”

Erik looked down at it and laughed.

Laughing too, Peter tousled his silver hair, peering at a clump of it, “And what is this shit you put in your hair?” He scraped it back away from his face, “It’s fucking awful.”

“It’s shampoo,” Erik deadpanned, backing up so that Peter could clamber out of the bath.

“Is it for grooming dogs?” Peter scoffed, “It’s gonna take all the dye out of my hair within a day, I’m gonna have to go to the drugstore.”

He pushed past his father and padded toward the spare bedroom, where he had probably already taken up accommodation. “There’s a coffee in the kitchen for you if you want it, asshole.”

Peter didn’t bother turning off the music in the living room when he resided to the bedroom, so Erik gently lifted the needle off the record and placed the vinyl back into its sleeve. It must have been one that Peter brought, so he separated it from the rest of his pile. He noticed a lump of silver on the floor beside the record player, and used the end of the baseball bat to pick it up. Upon closer inspection, he realised that it was a jacket of Peter’s, and hung it up on the coat hook near the front door.

The door to the spare bedroom didn’t open again for the rest of the evening. As soon as he was satisfied the apartment was clean, Erik settled in bed with his laptop and a porn site that he frequented. He opened a chat window, but muttering from the next room distracted him.

“...I’ll do anything.”

It was definitely Peter, and he was talking to someone. Erik put his laptop down and shuffled up in bed so that he could place his ear against the wall and hear clearer.

“I love you, I’ll do anything. Don’t say that, Alex, fuck, don’t say that.” There was a pause and a painful-sounding breath, “I love you, I love you, I’ll do anything, I’ll do anything. Please.”

Erik silently slipped out of his bedroom and felt his way across the wall, he pressed his ear against the door to the spare room, listening.

“I don’t have to go out, I don’t have to go out. I don’t even fucking want to go out. I don’t steal anymore, I don’t do anything anymore. I know my family are fucked up, I know, but I can stay with you. I’ll never see them again, I don’t care, I don’t need them, I don’t need anyone, I just need you. I love you, I love you so much, please, I love you, I love you.”

Erik shut his eyes, resigned, and felt himself trembling for an unknown reason.

“Please,” Peter continued to cry. “I feel sick, I feel really sick. I can’t do this. Please don’t do this.”

Erik went back to his bedroom, and didn’t open his laptop again.

 

In the morning, Peter entered the kitchen in loose-fitting sweatpants and a Blondie shirt that was four sizes too big. He was as bright and energetic as always, as if the ordeal the previous night hadn’t happened.

He hopped up onto the counter and inhaled deeply, “Pancakes,” he smiled, “I love pancakes.”

“Morning Pietro,” Erik replied monotonously. He flipped the pancakes and reached into the fridge with his other hand, pulling out the orange juice and placed it on the counter.

“Peter,” his son corrected absently, swigging directly from the carton.

Erik made a face, “Will you use a glass?”

“Alright, old man.”

He opened each cupboard in turn until he located the one with glassware, and got himself a glass. The pancakes were soon dished out onto plates, and Erik ordered Peter to sit.

Peter leapt off the counter and made his way to the table. He grabbed the plate from his father before he had a chance to put it down.

“I’ve been training,” he said distractedly as he sat down. Erik made a humming noise and placed down his own plate. “Coach thinks I could get into Team USA if I train hard enough. I’m thinking of doing a couple of gigs with the band, though, make a bit of money. Training doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”

Yes, of course, his band, _Quicksilver_.

Erik made a non-committal sort of humming sound and sat down.

They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, until Peter slammed his knife and fork down, almost startling Erik.

“Can I stay?” he asked suddenly.

Erik hesitated.

“Just for a few days,” Peter continued, and his next sentence was all in one breath, “I mean, well, Mom’s drinking again and Wanda doesn’t speak to me anymore and I can’t afford my own place and I’d stay with Alex but he’s being a _fucking asshole_ right now.”

Erik took a sip of his drink. It was almost impossible to catch what Peter had said, but he’d registered enough to raise an eyebrow and say; “Alex?”

Peter averted his gaze awkwardly and shoved as much of the pancake in his mouth as he could. Erik pinched the bridge of his nose with an anguished sigh, “Pietro...”

“Peter. And he’s only ten years older,” Peter said, Erik stopped himself from sighing again. “Just let me stay, please?”

Peter had managed to perfect his puppy-dog eyes, which made Erik wonder if he’d learnt them from his mother.

“Fine,” Erik said, and Peter’s face lit up. “You get the spare room, but you get your ass up before I leave for work every morning, and don’t get in my way. I’m already late because of you today.”

“I will!” Peter smiled brightly, springing out of his seat to wrap his arms around his father’s shoulders. Erik tensed, and Peter landed a smacking kiss on his cheek. “Thank you Dad!”

 

Erik had to go to work, and Peter decided to explore Manhattan, so they both headed to the Subway station not far from the apartment after breakfast. They waited in silence, for the most part, until Peter edged the toes of his sneakers a little too far over the edge of the platform and Erik tugged him backwards by his collar.

“Stop fucking around,” Erik hissed.

Peter rolled his eyes and blew a bright pink bubble with the bubblegum he was chewing. He then reached up and picked at his father’s shoulder.

“Stop that,” Erik snapped, after a couple of seconds.

Peter looked up innocently, “You have fluff.”

“I like it there,” Erik said, in complete seriousness.

Barely a beat passed before Erik plucked the fluff from the shoulder of his own coat and placed it on Peter’s head. Peter laughed and shook out his hair, watching the lint float to the ground.

They both sighed, and continued to stare at the wall of the subway.

“How are you for money?” Erik asked.

“Good,” Peter replied, popping another bubble.

“Because if you need money, if Magda needs money –”

“I’m fine,” Peter insisted, “I make my own money now, Mom would only waste it on booze. You know that.”

Erik hummed, “Don’t make enough to get yourself a new jacket, though.”

It was hardly a criticism, but was just edging on a joke, so much so that only Peter would have understood that it was. Erik picked up the sleeve of the silver monstrosity of a leather jacket Peter was wearing.

“Hey!” Peter said defensively, “This is my favourite jacket. I’ll have you know I painted it myself.”

Erik nodded, with a sideways glance at the patchy paintwork, “I can tell.”

 

Erik was definitely forty-five minutes late. It didn’t exactly matter, as he was technically the boss, but he still got a glare from Logan the Security Guard and a lewd gesture from Janos as he entered. He slapped a twenty on the CFO’s desk as he passed.

“Look who finally decided to show up.” Charles was waiting for him in his office when he arrived. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and looked like he’d been waiting since eight.

Erik sighed as he shut the door behind him, “Family emergency. Did we have an appointment?”

“We didn’t,” Charles replied. His eyes were slightly glassy. Erik’s mind supplied a number of different causes of glassy eyes, but maybe the previous night just hadn’t been as easy on him as Erik had presumed. “I’m here to inform you that you won’t be getting your computer back for a further few days. The virus is worse than they thought, apparently.”

“So, what,” Erik said, “You’re doing the IT tech’s dirty work, now?”

“His name is Hank and yes, in fact, I put effort into acquainting with my workers.” That was quite obviously a dig at Erik’s lone-wolf work style, but Erik brushed it off.

“They’re not _your_ workers, though, are they?” he smirked, leaning over his desk.

Charles made a noise of indignation and stormed out, Erik smiled as the door slammed.

 

The first thing Remy LeBeau did when he entered the break area was land a loud, hard smack on Erik’s ass. Erik very nearly dropped his coffee, but LeBeau just chuckled.

“I didn’t expect to see you here today, buddy.” he said casually, leaning up against the counter. “Frost says you’ve been off the grid, coming in late...” He raised his eyebrows as if he’d already thought long and hard about the girl Erik _must_ be screwing.

Erik grabbed a napkin to mop up the coffee that he’d spilt, and muttered “Family emergency.”

“Well, I hope it’s sorted by tonight. I want to go out, somewhere a little classier than last time. Az won’t be there, he’s got a date with that girl... What was it, Rachel?”

“Raven,” Erik said, “Well...” He wondered whether to say it for a moment, but LeBeau already seemed interested and he doubted that he would be able to shake him off now. “My son is playing downtown tonight.”

“Playing?”

“He’s in a band,” Erik explained, and then came to the profound realisation that he hardly knew anything about Peter’s band at all. “They’re a bit young, a rock group... I think. But it shouldn’t be that bad.”

“Sounds great, I’ll see you later, man.” LeBeau tapped him on the ass again, and Erik forced laughter as he left.

 

From the outside, the place looked rather unassuming. Black bricks and one-way windows with a minimalistic white-on-black sign. It was classier on the inside, with waiters and waitresses alike in matching black button-downs, men with thick beards and round glasses sat at tables with women with brightly coloured bobs. Erik felt like the oldest person in the building, and he was sure that he was.

“Maybe I should tie my hair up,” LeBeau muttered. He was glancing enviously at a man near the entrance, whose hair reached past his elbows.

A waitress bounded over, her black hair was parted into two buns on top of her head. Her statement piece appeared to be a yellow leather jacket, which matched the hair ties holding her buns in place. “Hey! Do you have a reservation?”

“Lehnsherr,” Erik said. The girl’s energy was exhausting.

She glanced at the clipboard for a moment, “Lehnsherr... Lehnsherr... Lehnsherr... Aha! Great, you’re on the list. If you’ll follow me through...”

She led them through the restaurant until they reached a table two rows back from the small stage. The band were already playing in the background, Erik only had to glance at the stage to see Peter and his silver jacket. They ordered their drinks, and the waitress fetched them immediately.

“My name’s Jubilation,” she said as she poured them, “Most people just call me Jubilee. Give me a shout if you need anything.” She smiled kindly, placed two coasters on the table and took off.

Erik watched her go, watched the sway of her hips and the curve of her waist and thought... _Who in their right mind would call their child Jubilation?_

“Nice pick,” LeBeau said offhandedly.

“She’s the same age as my son, probably younger.” Erik stared intently at his drink. LeBeau shrugged, still watching the girl, and Erik rolled his eyes, “You’re disgusting.”

The sound of clinking glasses, laughter and conversation floated around the room. LeBeau was talking for the most part, and Erik was for once glad that his colleague was talkative, because he couldn’t take his eyes off a guy two tables over. The line of his jaw, wine-stained lips, layered brown hair tucked back behind his ear. He didn’t look like he belonged there, but he was certainly enjoying himself. When he turned to laugh at the man beside him, his eyes blinked bright and blue. Erik imagined those blue eyes blinking up at him while he pressed him into the mattress. Skin on skin on soft white sheets.

Erik’s attention was drawn from the man when LeBeau tapped his arm.

“Which one’s your boy?” he asked, eyes scouring the stage.

Erik didn’t even bother to look up before he answered, “The silver one.”

He stirred his drink and took a sip from it for the first time, it tasted exactly how he would expect a drink from a place like this to taste. LeBeau, on the other hand, had almost finished his, and he reclined in his seat while the waitress hurried over to refill it. The volume was suddenly turned up from the band, and the first bars of Nirvana’s bass-heavy _come as you are_ riff sept through the bar. Erik was oddly proud of himself for recognising it.

Erik finally looked up just as Peter began to sing. He hadn’t actually known that Peter was the front man. The boy’s lips grazed the microphone as he leant in close, jaw-length hair falling across his face. It looked somewhat longer than it had that morning. His voice was rough and almost hoarse, wildly different to his speaking voice and an oddly haunting undertone to the bubble of conversation around the room. The music was familiar and not exactly beautiful, not exactly Erik’s taste, but everyone in the bar was slowly gaining interest.

As it reached the chorus, Peter dropped his hands from his bass and slung it onto his back, allowing his whole body to curve into the microphone. His voice would be better suited to acoustic, Erik thought, but the way he sang was captivating. LeBeau hadn’t looked away from the stage since the song started, and the rest of the room seemed to have fallen into a similar trance.

The music wavered to silence, and Peter’s misty eyes opened. Erik couldn’t tear his eyes away, and they just looked at each other for a while, the moment oddly fragile between them.

There was a moment of hushed, stunned silence, until applause erupted around the room. LeBeau was one of many to stand, cheering and clapping. He looked at Erik, a laugh in his tone, “He’s good, Lehnsherr, your boy’s good!”

Erik was the only one not applauding.

A while later, while the crew were packing up the equipment, Peter headed over to them. He gave a quick hug to a dark-skinned girl with a stark white mohawk, who Erik was sure had been on the drums, before he sat with them. The performance had added to his confidence immensely, he was bold and self-aware and happy.

LeBeau looked star-struck. “Remy LeBeau,” he said as he leant across the table, holding out his hand.

Peter shook the hand offered, “Peter.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Remy said, “You were fantastic, astounding, actually, almost ethereal. That song’s one of my favourites anyway, but, damn...”

Erik hadn’t been aware that LeBeau knew so many words, or that he was capable of stringing them together like that.

“Thanks,” Peter said with a smile, “Dad?”

“Pietro,” Erik replied.

LeBeau furrowed his eyebrows, “Pietro?”

“Peter.” He looked to Erik expectantly. “What did you think?”

“It was good,” Erik said, and Peter didn't react to the blunt answer. “I’ll get you a drink; soda?”

“Beer,” Peter said, “Thanks.”

Erik nodded once and headed to the bar. Remy sighed once he’d left, “I’m sorry about him, he’s... he’s been having a tough time at work. He’s acting boss for a while, and there’s some virus on his computer.”

“Sounds about right,” Peter chuckled. His eyes dropped to a placemat that he’d started to pick at.

Remy changed the subject quickly, “So, do you live in Manhattan?”

“I’m crashing at Erik’s for a while,” Peter said.

“For how long?” Remy asked.

“Until I can get back on my feet,” Peter supposed, “I’ve been there for a week. My – my mom’s ill, so I try to stay out of her way as much as possible. I was living with someone but that sort of backfired. I guess I should be living by myself now that I’m twenty two, but I dunno, I haven’t found anywhere that suits me. I could be here for the long run... don’t tell my dad about that bit, though.”

“Well,” Remy smiled charmingly, “You’re welcome to stay at my place anytime.”

Peter laughed, “Yeah, no, I don’t think Erik would like that very much.”

Erik returned and didn’t ask what they were talking about, but placed Peter’s drink in front of him. Peter continued talking to LeBeau as if Erik hadn’t even sat back down. They chatted about everything from LeBeau’s work to Erik’s laptop to Peter’s training, and Erik tried to seek out the man from before, but he’d most definitely left by now.

“Y’know, I love your dad,” Remy eventually said, clapping Erik hard on the back, which made Erik jump. “He’s an incredible man, what an incredible man.”

Peter nodded, looking slightly taken aback. Remy was an extremely confident drunk. He was much like Azazel, just more obnoxiously French. “Do you want champagne?” he asked Peter, “Champagne for everybody, champagne for the table!”

“Champagne!” Peter laughed, allowing Remy to grab his hand.

“Champagne,” Erik repeated unenthusiastically.

In the cab on the way home, Erik sat wedged between the door and his co-worker making out with his son. He took frequent glances in the rear view mirror in the hope that the cabbie was sharing his discomfort, but the driver didn’t seem to have even registered them. He wished he had that luxury, it felt like the longest car ride of his life, although it can’t have been more than fifteen minutes later when they pulled up onto the dimly lit street.

Peter and LeBeau got out of the cab giggling, and LeBeau hauled a laughing Peter over his shoulder and carried him inside. Erik followed them upstairs, ignored the slamming of _his_ bedroom door, and changed into the workout clothes he kept in the closet by the front door. He jammed his headphones into his ears and headed out.

He ended up six blocks away, keeled forward with a sharp stabbing pain in his chest. Once he had recovered from the initial winding, he realised that he was outside a bar that he’d been at only a week before. Bathed in the light from the neon sign, he pondered the bar for a moment, checked the time, saw that it had only been twenty-five minutes since he’d started running, and crossed the street to enter the building.

He made a beeline for the bar as soon as he got inside, and ordered a whisky. Being late at night, it was busier than he’d ever seen it. Patrons were milling around, socialising, drinking and flirting with the skimpily-dressed waitresses.

He was on his second glass when someone slid in next to him and ordered a refill. The British accent sent Erik’s head spinning, he didn’t even need to turn to know who was sat beside him.

“What are you doing here? It’s a Thursday,” he said.

Charles considered Erik with a sidelong glance, “I could ask you the same question. _You’re_ the acting CEO, are you not?”

“Touché,” Erik said, flagging down the bartender, “I went for a run and ended up here. Your turn.”

The Brit took his drink in one smooth gulp, tipping his head back and revealing his pale throat, which was all bared because of his unbuttoned shirt. “I like alcohol,” he eventually said.

Erik glanced at the empty glass Charles had placed on the counter, “I can tell. What are you drinking?”

“Bourbon,” Charles answered, and Erik immediately gestured for another. Charles just watched him do so. Of all people, he would never have expected _Erik Lehnsherr_ to buy him a drink.

“What?” Erik asked, when he clocked Charles’ confusion, “Didn’t think I was capable of kindness?”

Charles blinked, “I didn’t think you were capable of emotion, if I’m honest.”

Erik laughed and held up his glass, “Well, here’s to revelations, then.”

Charles touched their glasses together with a ‘here-here’, and they both drank to it. Erik couldn’t help but watch Charles over the lip of his glass as he did so.

At some point, there was enough alcohol in his system for Erik to feel pleasantly buzzed. His shoulders felt considerably lighter, and he had almost forgot that his son was currently fucking his co-worker in _his_ bed. The lack of tension in his body could probably be put up to both the drink and the company, but he would never admit that. Charles was an extremely easy person to talk to, especially once he had a few drinks in him, and he was also an easy person to look at, which was, again, helped by a few drinks. Alcohol put a permanent blush high on his cheeks that Erik had never seen before.

He was flushed that same red when he placed a hand on Erik’s shoulder, muttered, “I’m going to regret this”, and brought their lips together.

Erik was so taken aback that for a moment he didn’t react at all, but once his mind had caught up with his body and _oh my God Charles Xavier is kissing you_ , he put as much into the kiss as he could. Eventually, after what could only have been a few seconds, Charles pushed them apart, and then they were up and heading for the bathroom.

Almost before they were fully inside, Charles was pushing Erik up against the door and kissing him like his life depended on it. Erik kissed him back with just as much haste, his hands on Charles’ hips to stabilise one of them, but he couldn’t really tell which one. He’d managed to flip them over, got Charles up between his body and the door, when Charles pulled back just enough so that Erik got the   message and stopped, so that his glazed-over eyes and kiss-stained lips were in full view, and panted, “Let’s get out of here.”

 

Erik woke up in a bed that wasn’t his own. He wondered, briefly, if he’d gotten back to his apartment and fallen asleep in the spare bedroom, but just a glance around the room debunked that. The room was far too spacious to belong to his apartment, as nice as his own apartment was.

Disorientated, he threw his legs out of the bed and stood up, almost immediately thrown off guard by the bright sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the right side. They had no curtains and took up the entire wall, and Erik stood there for a moment, blinking, looking out over the bustling city.

The shower cut off, and it was a sound that Erik hadn’t been aware of, but now felt weird in its absence. A voice cut through the silence, however, replacing the sound.

“As nice of a view as it is, I’m not sure the whole of New York wants to see your modesty, my friend.”

Erik turned quickly, Charles was stood on the other side of the Queen-sized bed, one towel wrapped around his waist and another drying his hair.

“Is this your apartment?” he asked, scouring the floor for his underwear and pulling them on.

Charles nodded, “You’re still in Manhattan, don’t worry, we’re just on the thirty-second floor.” He made his way around the bed to stand beside Erik, the towel he’d used to dry his hair hitting the ground near their feet.

“Thirty-second?” Erik raised his eyebrows and looked back out of the window, now with a whole new perspective on the view, “Jesus Christ...”

“It’s also eleven o’clock, we must have slept through my alarm.”

Erik should have been alarmed that they were three hours late for work, and two of the most important people in the business. But he wasn’t. “It’s okay,” he said, “Last night must have been something.”

“I understand if you want to leave,” Charles said, suddenly, as if Erik’s words had been a criticism. “I drag you to my apartment for a drunken endeavour, make you late for work, it’s entirely unprofessional.”

A surge of something hit Erik’s chest, and he finally turned towards Charles, “Was a drunken endeavour all it was to you?”

“Of course not,” Charles said, “But I thought... well, I mean, you don’t normally do that sort of thing. Not with –”

“Not with a man?”

Charles was blushing. There it was again, the pink flush high on his cheeks. “Well, yes.”

Erik sat down on the bed and dropped his head to his hands, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Charles, you are so adorably unobservant.” He looked up to the man, who tilted his head ever so slightly in confusion, “You honestly think that I’ve never done that with a man? Or if that was _just_ a one night stand to me.”

“But...”

Erik hushed him by reaching out to him before he could protest, “Don’t. Just come back to bed.”

“But what about work? We’re already late.” Charles pushed against Erik’s arms as they snuck around his waist.

“They can manage without us for one day.”

Erik pulled Charles towards him, and Charles willingly fell back onto the plush duvet with him.

 

When Erik got back home, Peter was waiting for him in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter with a cup of coffee. He looked up from his phone just as Erik entered.

“Good night, Pops?” he asked.

“Mhm...” Erik hummed.

Peter held out a cup of coffee, but when Erik reached for it he pulled it back slightly, and then moved so that he could see the side of Erik’s throat, “Oh, yeah, it was _definitely_ a good night.”

Erik reached up to his throat defensively, and upon glancing at himself in the reflection of the microwave, found a large, purple bruise forming under his jaw.

“Shut up,” he grunted, grabbing the mug.

 

Over the weekend, Erik holed himself up in the apartment like a recluse. He stayed at the table in the front room and did nothing but work, catching up on everything he’d missed or was behind on due to the events of the past few weeks. Charles’ calls and texts were the only ones he didn’t actively ignore.

Peter switched between lying on the couch beside Erik’s chair and channel surfing, head somewhere near Erik so that he could steal his food or watch whatever he was doing, playing an unplugged bass on the other end of the couch, until Erik got annoyed and told him to knock it off, and occasionally he would get bored and steal Erik’s keys so that he could leave the apartment.

Monday and Tuesday passed without much to report, and Wednesday opened with a meeting that Erik wasn’t interested in but was obliged to attend, being acting-CEO and all, and when he finally reached the sanctuary of his office, he found Charles Xavier stood there, hands behind his back and a less than innocent expression.

“...Hello?” he said as he shut the door behind him. Charles just smiled, rocking back onto the balls of his feet, and Erik raised his eyebrows, “Is there any reason that you’re in my office?”

Charles rocked again, “Maybe.”

He took a step toward Erik, who held his hand out between them, and then used the other to reach back and tug the chord for the blinds, closing his office off to the rest of the floor. He then dropped his hand and allowed Charles to approach him, moving forward until they were pressed close together. Erik’s hands slipped around Charles hips and into the back pockets of his work slacks. It was weird, their situation, Erik wasn’t sure if they could be classed as ‘together’ or not, but Charles had been showing up in his office and they’d greeted like this every day of that week. Erik dipped down to kiss him, like he normally did. ( _‘Normally’, it was so odd having a ‘normal’ with Charles_ ), but Charles dodged it.

“Not until you get your surprise,” he said.

Erik raised his eyebrows, “There’s a surprise?”

“Mhm.” Charles lifted his chin until their lips were a hair apart, and then, without warning, he stepped back and pulled his hands around to his front, “Your laptop.”

“That was not at all worth the build-up,” Erik said.

He took the laptop from Charles anyway, and placed it on his desk.

“You’ll thank me later.” Charles brought them close again, he kissed Erik chastely. It was his turn to slip a hand into Erik’s back pocket. “Friday.”

“Friday?” Erik asked, humming when Charles kissed him again.

“Friday.”

With that, Charles slipped past him and out of the office. Erik span to watch the door shut, and then practically stumbled backwards into his chair.

 

Friday couldn’t come soon enough. Erik spent the rest of the week preoccupied, practically watching the clock. Charles came by his office regularly to remind him of their plan, and the rest of the time was spent waiting. He hadn’t had a stable relationship since Magda, and although what he had with Charles could hardly be classed as a “relationship”, it was the closest to what he’d had with Magda. Yet, it was so, so wildly different.

When he got home on Friday afternoon, after a meeting with the board which he’d spent most of just staring at Charles, he barely spared a thought to the fact that Peter wasn’t in the apartment. He’d gotten a key cut for himself at some point, and he’d been in and out frequently with his newfound freedom.

Erik packed a small bag, chucking in toiletries and a change of clothes, and headed out. He texted Peter while he was on the subway, just to tell him where the food was and that he wouldn’t be home until the morning, just so that he wouldn’t starve or be worried. He then put his phone in his bag and didn’t think about it again. He felt quite anxious on the train journey, and didn’t even glance at the raven-haired almost-woman staring at him from across the car.

He called Charles once he arrived at the building, a little thrown off by the expensive lobby. Charles told him to go straight up, so he jumped into the first elevator that opened and pressed the button for the thirty-second floor, smiling at the woman who got in halfway up. He knocked twice on the door to Charles’ apartment, and was immediately tugged inside by the knot of his scarf.

They spent most of the night in the bed, on the couch, and on the kitchen counter, and eventually ended up collapsing on the love-seat in the lounge, a tangle of limbs.

Erik woke sometime later to a crick in his neck, Charles Xavier’s head on his chest and a phone ringing from somewhere in the apartment. Charles seemed to have an aversion to curtains, so it must have been late because the apartment was pitch black besides a bright light emitting from Erik’s bag. His ringtone was also playing out into the room.

He sighed, rolled his head back against the arm of the love-seat and tried to slip out from underneath Charles. Charles was unmoving and surprisingly heavy draped across Erik’s body, though, and he couldn’t move more than an inch without disturbing him.

“Charles,” he whispered, “Charles.” Charles batted lightly at Erik’s ribs and groaned low, “Charles, I have to get up.”

Charles grunted and wrapped his arm around Erik’s waist, just lying on him heavier.

“Charles, seriously,” Erik said, “My phone.”

The man sighed and shifted off Erik. Erik pushed the blanket they’d taken from the couch off of himself and padded across the room. He picked his phone up from his bag, and upon seeing it was an unknown number calling, almost declined the call. He glanced at Charles, who was now sat up and rubbing his eyes.

“Who is it?” Charles asked.

“I don’t know,” Erik replied, looking back down at the screen. He eventually decided just to do it, and slid the bar across the screen and brought it to his ear, “Hello?”

“Is this Erik Lehnsherr?” the caller asked. It sounded like a young man, and he sounded far too distressed to be trying to sell something.

“This is him.” Erik furrowed his eyebrows and looked to Charles, who was making his way across the room with the throw blanket draped over his shoulders.

“I know that this is probably completely weird and out of the blue, but my name is Alex Summers. I’m Peter’s... I mean, I know your son.”

Erik had to flick through his memory for the name, but eventually it came to him. That first night that Peter stayed with him, the phone call.

“Alex, yeah, Pietro’s spoken about you before.”

There was an edge to his tone that sounded somewhat angry. As irritating as his son could be, Erik could hardly forget how upset he’d sounded when he’d spoken to Alex.

“Right,” Alex said, as if he knew that Erik knew about their ‘fight’, or whatever it was. “Well, I’ve been trying to call him for a couple of hours now and I can’t get through. And I know that it’s late over there but he’s always up late and he always answers and you know his history and I just... I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“How did you get this number?” Erik asked. He didn’t feel bad about that being his priority.

“Peter gave it to me, before we... before he left for New York. We lived together, uh, if you didn’t know that. He said that it was how I could get hold of him if he wasn’t answering his phone.”

“Okay,” Erik said, “I’ll get in touch with him.”

“Thank you, Mr Lehnsherr.”

Erik hung up without another word, and he almost jumped when Charles lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Is everything alright?” Charles asked.

Erik scrubbed a hand over his face, “It’s Pietro – my son. His... well, I don’t know what they are, but someone he knows just called me to tell me that he isn’t answering his phone.”

While he talked, he was unlocking his phone and opening his call log. He pressed on Peter’s name. It rang once, twice, three times, and then clicked through to the answer machine. He tried again, one, two, three, click, answer machine.

“Fuck...” he muttered, getting to his feet. He pulled his clothes out of his bag and began to get dressed, “Charles, I’m so sorry, I have to leave.”

When he looked at the other man, Charles was looking back with concern painted over his face.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, “I’ll drive you.”

He moved to collect his clothes from around the room, pulling them on as he went, and eventually they were both dressed and Charles had his keys in his hand.

“You don’t have to do this,” Erik said.

“Stop that.” Charles shoved Erik’s bag towards his chest, “Call him again.”

Erik did, and it went through to the answer machine again. He left one frantic message as they made their way to Charles’ car, and another on the drive, and by the time they were getting out of the car his breathing was so ragged and his heart was pumping so hard that he wasn’t sure he could leave another message if he tried.

He was so anxious when they reached the apartment that he dropped his keys while trying to unlock the door, and Charles placed a hand over Erik’s, picked the keys up himself and slowly turned them in the lock. As soon as they were inside, Erik was slamming open every room and calling for his son. Charles hovered in the hallway, until he heard something that sounded like a faucet running from the direction of the bathroom. As he approached it, he saw that there was water pooling beneath the door.

“Erik!” he yelled.

Erik raced into the hallway. He looked absolutely haggard, more vulnerable than Charles had ever seen him, “What?” Charles just pointed to the floor, and Erik’s eyes widened. “Fuck.” He pushed past Charles and tried to push down the handle, but the door was locked. He whacked it a few times with the heel of his hand, “Pietro!” he turned to Charles, “Go into the closet and get my bat.”

“Your bat...?” Charles repeated. He wouldn’t have taken Erik for the baseball type, or the paranoid type for that matter.

“Just do it!” Erik yelled, and then went back to whacking at the door, “Pietro! Pietro! Peter!”

Charles pulled open the closet beside him, and the bat was the first thing he saw. He chucked it to Erik, who pushed him backwards before holding the bat up and then bringing it down onto the lock. It took a few hits, but eventually the lock and handle broke, and Erik threw himself against the door to open it.

 **What was behind the door winded Charles** , and made Erik scream. Charles had to turn away and put a hand over his mouth to stop himself from vomiting just at the sight. Peter, who Charles had never met before, who didn’t look much older than twenty, was lying slumped against the bath, which was overflowing, one arm thrown over his stomach and the other lying beside him on the floor. Blood was seeping through his shirt and onto the white tile, and then onto Erik, who dropped to his knees and grabbed his wrists in a vice-like grip, desperately trying to stop the blood.

“Call an ambulance!” Erik screamed, and Charles didn’t hesitate to do so. His hands shook on the phone, and he could only choke out his words to the operator.

The ambulance arrived relatively quickly, and Peter was scooped up onto a gurney. There was a large smear of scarlet on his cheek and jaw, from where Erik had tried to wake him up, and blood dripped onto the carpet when he was moved into the hallway.

The paramedics conferred with each other over Peter. Charles caught the words “hypovolemic shock”, and wished that he didn’t know what that meant. One of them began to pump Peter’s chest, and Erik screamed and tried to fight past them. Charles rushed into the bathroom to hold him back, by wrapping his arms around Erik’s trembling shoulders, until he collapsed against Charles, sobbing and heaving against his t-shirt. Charles tried to ignore the fact that they were sat in Peter’s blood as he wrapped an arm around Erik’s head and held him there. Through all his put-together façade to keep Erik calm, he couldn’t stop himself from shuddering when there was a loud crack.

The apartment had grown extremely quiet, with only the sounds of the paramedic counting the time between pumps on Peter’s chest. After a few seconds, which felt like years, one of them declared that there was a pulse, and they immediately worked on moving him out.

 **“Can I come with him?”** Erik asked one of them, who stayed behind. He was holding onto Charles’ arm as if he’d float away if he let go.

She shook her head, “I’m sorry,” she said, “You can follow us, though. Do you have a car?”

“I do,” Charles said, “I’ll drive.”

 

When he returned from the hospital late that evening, Erik spent four hours scrubbing at the tiles in the bathroom. He eventually called Charles at one in the morning, after vowing that he’d be alright on his own, and Charles was almost immediately on his way over. He found Erik on his hands and knees on the floor, sobbing something about how the ugly, off-brown stain just wouldn’t clean off the grouting. Charles knelt down beside him, prised his hands away from the cleaning equipment, and held him, promising that they’d call someone to retile the whole bathroom in the morning.

The apartment smelt like bleach for two days, and Erik stayed at Charles’ apartment until they could find someone who would retile it on such short notice. He stayed out of work for Monday and Tuesday so that he could make sure that everything went perfectly. Once it was done, despite being completely retiled, the bathroom looked exactly the same as it did before, as if nothing had happened, like a whole period of time had been erased.

After the bathroom was done, and much to Charles’ distaste, Erik insisted on going to work on Wednesday, because he was Erik Lehnsherr and he preferred the “avoid every situation and pretend that everything is normal” approach to life. But he wasn’t himself, and everyone knew that. He spent the day avoiding his co-workers – including Charles – like the plague, and kept the blinds of his office firmly shut. It was because of this that he didn’t even realise that the actual CEO was back from her month-long vacation with her husband.

There was a short, sharp knock at his office door sometime around three. He considered a more polite way to say ‘fuck off’, but his silence extended for so long that eventually the person outside decided to just let themselves in.

Pepper Potts was an attractive woman, who held herself like a model. Erik looked up to find her stood at the other side of his desk with her arms carefully folded, hands resting on the crooks of her elbows. Her blue eyes bore into Erik’s, almost challenging him.

“You’re back,” Erik said. He felt slightly relieved that he could now move all the unread emails in his inbox to hers.

“I am,” she replied, “And you shouldn’t be here.”

“Excuse me?”

She cleared her throat, “I’m giving you two week’s compassionate leave, which can be extended should you need it. It’s non-negotiable. You’re not to come into work until you are ready or immediate action will be taken. Am I understood?”

“But...” Erik tried to protest.

“Your work will be handled by Mr Xavier.”

Erik stood slowly, slightly timid. He knew better than to fight with a woman who could run in six-inch heels. Once they were on the same level, he nodded, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Pepper said, “Go and see your son.”

 

Peter had his own private room at the hospital, and the nurses said that it was because of the risk of imitation, but Erik knew that Charles had something to do with it.

Like usual, Peter had slept through most of the day, the nurses told him once he arrived, and, like usual, Erik took up the seat at the side of his bed. The boy did seem to be asleep, and that was exactly what he looked liked, a boy. He lost seven years when he slept, anyway, and with his added gauntness and practically translucent skin he looked even younger.

Erik ran the tips of his fingers across the bandages on his wrist. They’d told Erik that he’d had to get twenty-four stitches and a blood transfusion, as he’d lost around a fifth of the blood in his body, but Erik was hardly thinking about that. In his head, the thoughts that were spinning were _an inch to the left, a hair deeper, another minute and he could have bled out right then and there_.

 _Another minute_.

The nurses had all heard of him when Erik finally arrived at the hospital that night. They still spoke to him and each other about how Erik had held his wounds closed, of how he “single-handedly saved his son’s life”, as one of the paramedics had told him. He didn’t agree with that, he didn’t think that Peter’s life had been saved at all. It was going to take him a long time to spring back from this, long enough for him to miss the Olympics qualification window, long enough for him to forget how to play his bass or how to run fast enough for track. The only way Erik could have saved his life was by preventing it from happening, by being there before the thought of hurting himself could even enter his son’s head.

Peter hardly spoke to the nurses at all, not even when a sweet young woman woke him up before lunch on Thursday so that he could eat. In all fairness, what they placed in front of him wasn’t anything to shout home about, but Erik was at least expecting him to make a snarky comment about how much it looked like gruel. Maybe an Oliver reference or something similarly as Peter.

“They’re not sparing with the food here, are they?” Erik said, in an attempt to lighten the mood once the nurse had left.

Peter lifted his spoon out of the bowl and watched the beige liquid slop off it. “Mhm.”

“You wouldn’t even serve it to a fucking pig.”

That made Peter suck in a loud breath, which probably could have been taken as a laugh. “Gordon Ramsay?” he said, and it was the first thing he’d said since he woke up.

“You know it,” Erik said, “Hell’s Kitchen is the best show on TV. You’d have to be an idiot sandwich to think otherwise.”

Peter groaned and dropped his head onto his pillow, “I can’t believe you’re actually quoting Gordon Ramsay at me right now.”

That lightened the mood considerably, and they actually managed to find a channel that was playing Hell’s Kitchen so that Peter had a distraction from the food in front of him. Possibly the only good thing about the meal was the orange jello, which went down a treat compared to the rest of it. When the nurse came back to take his blood pressure, Peter pretended to be asleep so that she couldn’t admonish him for his almost full bowl.

Surprisingly, Erik didn’t actually try to go back to work for the next week. Every morning he would get a call from Charles while he was on the subway, which he ignored, and he would also get another on his way home, which he would also ignore.

Wednesday rolled around and Erik had been successfully avoiding Charles for seven straight days. With everything that was on his mind – paperwork to sign, a son to visit and a looming hospital bill – it isn’t all that difficult to avoid him. He spent his days in peter’s room, either finishing up work while he slept (you can take the man out of work but you can’t take work out of the man) or watching crappy daytime television shows on the tiny hospital TV in his room.

He had just gotten home from the hospital when Charles ambushed (for lack of a better term) him. It was unclear how long he’d been waiting at Erik’s front door, but it had evidently been a while. He was still in his work clothes, but he was propped up against the door, on the ground of the hallway. That was why it wasn’t exactly an ambush, he appeared to have fallen asleep.

Erik toed him in the ribs, and he startled awake.

“What is this?” Erik asked.

Charles scrubbed a hand through his hair, which was sticking up slightly in the back. “Uh... an intervention?” he said, but it sounded more like a question.

“Right,” Erik said, “Well, you’re sort of in my way, so...”

Charles got to his feet and brushed down his suit, “I want to know why you’re not speaking to me.”

“I’ve been busy; having a suicidal child is pretty stressful.”

He tried to reach past Charles to unlock the door, but Charles grabbed his wrist.

Erik smirked, “It’s been a while since you held me like this, Charles.”

“Not the time,” Charles snapped. “You’re avoiding me. I deserve to know why.” Erik sighed, and successfully pushed past, Charles followed him into the kitchen. “Don’t avoid me again, Erik.”

“I’m not.” Erik turned, hands braced on the counter.

“Then tell me why you’ve been avoiding me!” Charles crossed his arms, and he closely resembled an angry toddler. All he needed to do was add a foot stomp.

Erik’s grip on the counter grew so tight that his knuckles turned white and began to hurt. “I...” He shut his eyes and sighed. “I don’t love you, Charles.”

Charles swallowed, “I know.”

“It’s been three weeks, Charles, and in those weeks my son has nearly died. It’s not... I don’t love anyone, Charles, I just don’t.” Erik’s gaze was firmly on the floor, and Charles swore that he looked like he could cry. 

Charles’ eyes softened, “But you do, my friend.” He stepped into Erik’s personal space, and placed his hand on his cheek, gently tilting Erik’s face upwards so that their eyes met. “You love your son.”

Erik nodded, “That I do.”

Charles tilted forward, used his grip on Erik’s face to pull their mouths together. Then, he pulled back, rested his forehead on Erik’s and said, “I don’t love you either, but I will. _We_ will.”

For the first time in a long time, everything didn’t look quite so black and white. Maybe he wasn’t happy, or even content, but he was okay, and he felt that the future might actually hold something good. And a year later, when Peter is bounding up to him after qualifying for Team USA, Erik will hug him as tight as he can, and they will have Charles to celebrate with, and he will, at last, be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> if you have any questions about this fic, or just want to be nice, you can either comment, leave kudos or follow my tumblr: pinckgabe.tumblr.com  
> thank you  
> (P.S. if you want to actually hear Peter's version of come as you are, listen to the american horror story: freakshow soundtrack version)


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